


Things sweeter than syrup

by JaqofSpades



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-12
Updated: 2014-02-12
Packaged: 2018-01-12 01:18:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,780
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1180198
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JaqofSpades/pseuds/JaqofSpades
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Natasha smiles, and her last coherent thought is that she can still taste Clint's syrup, sweet on her tongue.  (Or: the Avengers go for breakfast.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Things sweeter than syrup

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Porn Battle XV: The Ides of Porn, to the prompts: MCU, Tony Stark/Steve Rogers/Clint Barton/Bruce Banner/Thor Odinson/Natasha Romanoff, family, breakfast, protection.

The day after the battle of Manhattan, they're the only customers in the diner on 34th street. The owner is manning the grill, and his wife is sweeping up glass; she's happy to pass the broom to Steve for a while when he argues that nobody should ask the Avengers to make breakfast.

Or coffee, it turns out. Natasha grimaces as Tony pours liquid death into their cups, and reminds herself to make the next pot. She can barely taste her muesli, and can't seem to take her eyes off Clint's waffles, drenched in syrup and piled high with bacon.

Or maybe she can't take her eyes off Clint.

He moans as he bites down into the gooey mess, and Natasha swallows as a line of maple syrup dribbles from the corner of his mouth; fat, golden brown drops that he smears halfway to his ear when he tries to wipe them away. 

“Want some?” he mumbles around a mouthful of waffle, pushing his plate towards her in encouragement, stupid mile-wide grin inviting her to join him in the bacchanal. 

The “no!” gets stuck somewhere in her chest, and her finger is already dipping in the syrup, dragging the sweetness onto her tongue. It's not enough though, and her memory is feeding her scene after scene of something so much sweeter. 

Fourteen years, since Budapest. Two weeks since he was stolen from her, and twenty hours in which they found, and nearly lost, each other, all over again. 

Natasha leans over to steal the droplets at the corner of his mouth, her tongue lapping at each one, all the way up to his cheekbone. He's still frozen with surprise as she plunders his lips to find any hidden reservoirs of sweet stickiness.

“Mmm, sweet,” she hums, and pulls back. Her laugh is cut short by Hawkeye's sudden lunge, lifting her straight out of her chair and directly into his lap. She hates the way her body immediately tenses for battle, but … this man. He still knows her. Clint's hands beg for permission as they smooth down her spine, pausing at the curve of her waist, delicate strokes for one, two, three long moments of waiting for her decision. She gives it to him in a kiss, tongue and teeth and fourteen years of regret, and he moans his welcome into her mouth even as he plunges his hands deep into the gape of her jeans. 

She hears a whistle of admiration – Tony – and a shocked intake of breath she's fairly sure belonged to Steve. She wonders, for a moment, if she should be embarrassed, if the Black Widow would expose herself like this. She's never been part of a team before, and they are yet to determine the boundaries between them. Pah! The morning after the night before; life after near death – she has no stomach for such rationality.

If they judge her for this celebration, so be it. She cannot care if they do, will not, because Clint's fingertips are exploring the muscled curves of her ass, kneading and caressing, then sliding down the vertiginous slope between. 

Natasha finds she can't make a sound, can't concentrate long enough to ask or beg or demand. Instead, she seals his mouth with her own and lets him swallow every last sigh and moan. It works until his archer's calluses catch on the tender flesh of her clit, rough and ruthless, even as gentle fingers smear her own syrup from stem to stern.

“Clint!” she cries, flinging her head back as her entire body vibrates with anticipation. 

They stare into each other's eyes as he starts to fuck her with long, strong fingers. She's rolling in his lap in near abandon as he pistons them in and out, short, sharp movements dictated by the fabric prison of her jeans. Grinding down as her hungry sex swallows him whole, driving her higher and higher, but refusing to let her fall.

Natasha throws back her head and whines out her frustration. Even to her own ears, it sounds like a plea for help, and the hand that tangles in her hair doesn't come as a surprise. The wall of muscle behind her that tells her it's Thor.

Her hands are clutching for him even before she looks up into his face, stern with lust. His long blond hair is a ragged halo for eyes so blue they look like flame, burning ever brighter as they take in her face, then return to the sight of Clint's hand, working furiously inside her jeans. His cock, she realises, is a relentless spear between her shoulder blades, and she can't help herself. She thunks her head back into the hard planes of his belly and rubs against him like a cat.

The Prince of Asgard isn't one to ignore such a signal.

Buttons bounce off the floor as he yanks open her shirt, baring her bra to the world. It's old and comfortable, far from pretty, but there's to be no dwelling on that, not this morning. Thor reaches down a gentle hand to investigate what she suspects is something foreign to him; he grunts in satisfaction as her nipples rise to aching prominence under the heavy elastic.

“Ho, Widow. I would see you free of this,” he rumbles, punctuating the request with a slow drag of sharp fingernails over the hidden buds. 

Natasha's back arches with delight, and her hips buck once more, forcing the hand buried inside of her back into movement. Clint laughs, but it's not that short bark of amusement, or the endearing little-boy chuckle. It has a hungry edge to it, and his eyes are dark with lust as he stares at Thor's huge hands on her breasts.

Maybe that's why she yanks her bra down to free herself for their delectation. Maybe that's why she lets Thor seize her arms so that she is arched like a bow between them, any thought of anything except her own satisfaction lost to the approaching storm. Maybe that's why she guides that blonde head to her breast, shuddering as he abrades the tight buds with his teeth, then tends them with long swipes of his tongue.

It's not enough. She can't vocalise, but there's a wail, high and wanting and desperate. A bitch in heat. A void, begging to be filled. 

“Nat.” Clint is lifting her off him, pushing her into Thor's arms as he tears at the fastening on his combat pants. His cock is free in seconds, already sticky with pre-come. He sits back in his chair with a thump, and reaches for her.

They're together, and they're alive, Natasha thinks. So, yes, she is about to fuck her teammate while the others look on. She kicks off her running shoes, and shimmies free of her jeans and panties, almost frantic in her haste. She already has one leg either side of Clint's knees when Steve snorts his objection.

“Thought you were the one who'd been awake all this years!” he says wryly, and she's still trying to make sense of that as he fumbles in his wallet, looking for something. 

Oh.

Protection.

“Nothing changes that much,” he observes wryly, proffering the condom with red cheeks. 

Natasha observes him through her eyelashes, and remembers another old soldier she'd long since lost. Remembers the longing in his voice, and the dark secrets in his eyes. She who doesn't risk...

“Put it on him,” she orders.

Steve flushes, and Clint blinks with surprise. Natasha resists the urge to huff.

“Trust me. He'll enjoy it,” she adds, and Clint's grin breaks across his face as Captain America puts a tentative hand on his shoulder.

“Specially if you do it with your mouth,” her partner tries to tease, but there's too much honest lust in his voice for the joke to fly.

It's Steve who surprises them all.

“Wonder if I can remember how,” he says wickedly, and drops to his knees. 

Clint's groan resonates through the room, and Natasha's not surprised to see her fellow Avengers move closer. Banner has two spots of colour high on his cheeks and an erection in his pants that's not half as shy as the man himself. Stark doesn't have it in him to be shy; he is stroking himself, just out of Natasha's reach.

“Tony,” she says, and can hear the invitation vibrating in her voice. 

His eyes swing away from Steve's labouring mouth and collide with her own. “Nah. This is good. I like to watch.”

And you've finally seen the light with Pepper, Natasha thinks, trying not to smirk.

“Stop! I'm gonna – Nat!” Clint begs, and Steve licks his way to the end of Clint's cock, relinquishing it with a last slow lick. 

“All yours, ma'am,” he says, and – Christ's bones! - actually salutes. 

Thor roars with delighted laughter and seizes her up to settle her over Clint with remarkable attention to detail. His massive ham-like hands spread her apart, fingers nudging at her folds as if to assure himself of her readiness, then dipping inside to steal some of her wetness for himself. She can't help but undulate a little, soaking his fingers in fresh arousal and then moaning aloud as he licks the taste of her from his hand.

“She's dripping for you, my friend,” Thor says huskily, and Natasha has to tilt her head up at that, to bite at the pulse throbbing on the side of his neck, and breathe her truth into his ear.

“For all of you,” she corrects softly, her tongue tracing a tattoo of intent along his jaw until she finds his lips and kisses him, slow and deep. Then she returns her gaze to Clint, praying he understood. The tyranny of the job, competing allegiances, the dark places of the soul; for so long he was the only one who shared these burdens. But now, now … they are not alone. They are six heads on one body. Twelve hands. A single purpose.

United, she thinks, as she sinks down slowly, and the press of bodies around her becomes a blur of hot flesh and seductive intent.

She gropes blindly, dragging their hands onto her body, already hurtling towards her peak. Thor behind her, Steve to one side, and Bruce to the other. Clint, inside of her, and behind him, Tony, hands gripping Clint's shoulders and eyes fixed on their point of conjunction. 

This is how they will be, the Avengers. A circle, breathing as one, gasping as one, convulsing as one. A family, albeit dysfunctional and incestuous. A team.

Natasha smiles, and her last coherent thought is that she can still taste Clint's syrup, sweet on her tongue.


End file.
